unvoiced words cast as shadows or wilting in the face of the predictable response or echoes of echoes and all this weary smoke settling over the city towers and spires the blood speck sun thirst is nameable but this is not . the cloud distinctly a face suspended over the far valley blowing out a bellicose wind and from the summit we watched smoke churning up like smoke there’s nothing else so plain-spoken yet indirect […]
Sudden blue like a blow who knows from when or where it comes from the viaduct the Bay shines today like a blank page so very full of promise– but how it does get taxing, all this hoping and hoping, and hoping–
These matroyshka days, they don’t progress but nest one within another, like waking dreams or dreams of waking— And just like that it’s morning, again, in this, some city, unlike others, but also mostly the same, a dawn, a limbo, drinking coffee and trying to name things— this is a Thursday, and this is my home.
Writing as a landscape, a warning– don’t mistake placidity for peace. It could be that the stillness of the trees is self-imposed, the dormant volcano, disciplined; though tired of being a backdrop, too tired to do much else but stay, glacial, to wrinkle the horizon with creases the same non-hue as a day-moon, elusive, barely showing up in photos.
OPTIONAL POETRY 